


Always

by non_tiembo_mala



Series: Tumblr Drabbles, Ficlets, and Brother Moments ♥ [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Set in season 12, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: Sam has it together for the most part. Usually he's the one making sure Dean is okay, especially with all this stuff with Mom. Every once in a while though, Sam's own traumas make themselves known. Luckily, Dean will always be there for him to get him through.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is far from my first Sam-has-a-panic-attack-and-Dean-cares-for-him fics. It's apparently a thing I do when my own life is kinda being whatever and I want to cry. Yeah, so. Anywho, it's random and unbeta'd.

Sam hates this. He hates it so much. One minute, he’s fine. He really, really is. He drives, he hunts, he takes care of his stubborn, emotionally obstinate big brother – all the usual things. But then, seemingly out of nowhere – not in blood spattered rooms with a weapon in his hand, not when they’re dragging hacked up bodies outside to burn – he’ll be doing something mundane – dusting in the library, Dean’s dishes from earlier – and it sneaks up on him.  
  
He’s putting on a pot of coffee to fuel some late night research and nearly drops the carafe, narrowly setting it on the hotplate as his hands start to shake violently. He clenches his teeth desperately and tries to fight the way his chest is starting to heave, his breath coming in short, almost-gasps. He shakes his head and looks for the nearest chair, the tremor spreading throughout his body and his head getting light.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, stuttering. He gets to the kitchen table, dropping his forearms down onto it to steady and catch himself as he drops heavily into the chair, sprawling awkwardly as his knees give out. “G-god dam-dammit.”

He leans forward on the table, arms a cradle for his head, and he tries to breathe. His whole body is trembling and he feels disconnected except for the tightening in his chest, the growing ache behind his ribs. 

Lucifer hasn’t been in their home for months and Toni hasn’t been in his head for weeks but this _still_ keeps happening. He’s been good, generally, and he means it when he tells Dean he’s doing okay, but this shit makes it harder. He _hates_ it. Sam can feel it getting away from him, the pain swelling and his breath impossibly hard to catch, but at least if he blacks out he’ll just slump over the table.   
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses again, and angrily pounds his fist on the table. His eyes burn even though he steadfastly keeps them shut. His cheeks are still wet with tears that he ignores.

“Sam– Sammy, hey,” Dean’s voice is mercifully louder than the hammering of Sam’s heart in his ears and Sam zeroes in on it, the sound of his brother’s now heavy, fast footfalls from the hallway to where he’s trapped by his goddamn panic attack in the kitchen. Dean’s hand is on him next, on his shoulder and then sliding up to cup the back of his head. Dean crouches on the ground and leans in close, his other hand covering the fist Sam slammed on the table.

“Hey, just breathe, baby,” he coos, nosing in along Sam’s ear. “Just breathe, it’s gonna be alright. I’m here, I got ya.” He kisses the side of Sam’s face and then breathes, warm and slow against Sam’s ear, giving him something to follow along to. His fingers rub at the nape of Sam’s neck and hold onto his shaking hand, and, at first, Sam can’t help crying a little harder. 

He hates that Dean sees him like this, that this is what his brother must be thinking about when he asks how Sam is feeling every morning, but he almost hates even more how much it helps, how much he desperately needs Dean; he’ll _always_ be Dean’s little brother. If it weren’t for Dean to reign him in, Sam isn’t sure how long he’d be stuck here, crippled by his body that refuses to let him forget his most recent traumas, no matter how ready Sam is to let them fade in with all the rest. 

“Shh, Sammy, sweetheart, shh,” Dean murmurs, petting his hair back now. Dean’s touch is an anchor for him and his voice centres him. Sam takes in as a deep a breath as he can force, still shuddering, and exhales slowly. “That’s it, easy now. In and out, baby.”  
  
Sam isn’t really sure how long it takes, how long they’re like that, Dean crouched despite the way his bad knee must be protesting, his hands and voice working to soothe his sometimes-broken little brother. By the time Sam is breathing steady and the pain is gone, the shaking has passed and the tears on his face are dry and a little itchy, Sam’s panic is replaced with a familiar guilt heavy in his gut. He sniffles and turns his face where his forehead is still on his left forearm so he can look at his big brother.

Dean’s eyes are a little glassy, his pretty lashes a little darker than usual – a little wet – but his cheeks are dry and his expression is soft like Sam has only ever seen it for him. Dean tucks back some of Sam’s hair out of his face and gives him a small smile. Sam bites his lip.

“Dean, I– I’m–”

Dean shakes his head, sighing a little, and leans in to kiss Sam, make him shush. “Don’t, Sam. Just, don’t. It’s okay. I know you’re okay.”   
  
Sam can’t help but smile at his brother. They don’t say a lot – especially Dean – but somehow Dean still says what Sam needs to hear, and he looks at Sam so earnestly that Sam believes it. 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam whispers, sitting up and reaching for his brother’s face with both hands to kiss him properly. Dean’s hands find their way on top of Sam’s and Dean leans into the kiss a moment before breaking it and groaning, looking at Sam ruefully.  
  
“I don’t know about you, but I’m too old to be in this position this long,” he grumbles, standing up with several loud pops and cracks of his knees that make Sam wince sympathetically. Sam is about to try to apologize again when Dean interrupts him. “I could go for some scotch, a way more comfortable chair, and maybe a lap full of little brother. C’mon, Sammy.”  
  
He holds his hand out for Sam to take, eyebrow raised expectantly, and Sam huffs a small laugh before getting up, threading their fingers together, and following Dean into the library. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always, dears ❤


End file.
